


Balm

by tinuelena



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:16:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinuelena/pseuds/tinuelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Gaby calmed Illya down... and one time she didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

Florence, Italy

July 1965

 

                Italy was hot in the summer-- too hot for Illya's taste. He strolled along the Ponte Vecchio arm-in-arm with Gaby, trying to cool off with a scoop of gelato. Though the weather, to him, was atrocious, he couldn't deny the charm of the medieval bridge; jewelry glittered in the windows, products of Florence's famous goldsmiths, and the whisper of the Arno River threaded through the voices of the bustling crowds, speaking every language from the native Italian to English to Mandarin. Women's heels clicked along the pavement, a gentle percussion, and pigeons cooed at passersby, begging for scraps of food. He could almost say it was better than Rome-- but Rome was where he fell for Gaby, and no medieval bridge would ever be as beautiful as the Spanish Steps for that reason alone.

                "You keep pulling me," complained Gaby, tugging at his arm.

                "You keep trying to go out into the sun," he said around a mouthful of raspberry. "It's hot. Stay in shade."

                She stopped. "It's summer."

                "Yes. Summer is hot. And unlike you, I cannot wear short dresses."

                "Well, you _could_ ," she said with a smirk.

                He rolled his eyes. "That dress would be a shirt on me."

                "I don't see the problem."

                He shook his head, unable to fully hide a smile, and Gaby linked her arm through his again, pulling him down the street.

                "Come on. We're going to do something."

                Illya allowed himself to be led down the street, licking the rest of his gelato out before tossing the cone to a cluster of pigeons. She brought him up to a little gap in the line of shops; from the cobblestones rose a bust of a bearded man gazing skyward, protected by a waist-high iron gate with hundreds of padlocks hanging from its bars.

                "Why locks?" he asked.

                "It's a local legend," Gaby explained, as they approached the rail overlooking the river. An old man in a kayak glided swiftly through the water, leaving a neat row of ripples in his wake. "The legend says that if two lovers put a lock on the gate surrounding the statue of Cellini and throw the key into this river, your love will last forever." She peeked at him from under a fringe of dark lashes, gauging his reaction.

                His perpetually-detached face had not changed expression. "Silly superstition," he pronounced, then looked into the river. He dug into the cobblestone with the toe of his newly-purchased Florentine leather shoes. "Maybe... we bring lock next time."

                Gaby reached into her handbag and pulled out a small padlock and a key. "One step ahead of you."

                He put a hand on her back and pulled her close for a kiss. "I love you."

                She smiled. "You tell me at least three times a day."

                Flustered, he jammed his hands in his pockets. "I--"

                "I'm teasing, darling. I never get sick of hearing it. Shall we?"

                Together, they knelt at the side of the gate; Illya put his massive hand on Gaby's tiny one and they clicked the lock shut over the highest bar. She leaned over to kiss him, taking in the scent of cedarwood and clary sage, and stood up. "Do you want to throw the key?" She held it up; the sun glinted off the shiny metal.

                "You do it," he said.

                She palmed the key and threw it with all her might; it made a tiny splash in the water, enough to cause the man in the kayak to turn and look. He caught Gaby's eye and nodded at her with a smile.

                "There." She turned back to Illya with a grin. "Now you're stuck with me."

                He reached for her hand. "I am happy for that. Now, you come with me."

                She followed him back onto the main path. "Where are we going?"

                "Last time I bring you a present, it was bugged. This time, we buy real jewelry."

                Gaby touched the fake ring, which she still wore, though the bug had been deactivated and she'd switched it to the right hand. _That one stays empty for now,_ she'd told Illya. _I'm not really your fiancee, after all._ Napoleon had teased her about hanging onto it, but stopped when Illya's fingers began to twitch. Once she learned that Illya had not simply bought the ring for her, but had actually designed and made it himself before leaving for Rome as a surveillance gadget, she loved it even more.

                They stopped in front of one of the windows. On blue velvet busts hung necklace upon necklace; there were tiers and tiers of intricately designed rings, some without gems, some with brilliant rubies and emeralds and all variety of gemstones. Earrings hung on little display racks, dripping pearls of every shade, stones blazing in the sunlight. "Here," Illya decided, and led her inside.

                She entered the shop, which was tiny but full of beautiful goldwork on every surface available. As Gaby tried to decide where to start, the goldsmith, shoulders hunched from decades of bending over his work, approached Illya. "An engagement ring?" he asked brusquely in Italian, pulling out a tray from a glass case.

                Before Illya could tell him that he really planned on buying a necklace for her, he'd set the tray of diamond rings on the top of the case and grabbed Gaby's hand. _"Mani piccole,"_ he observed.

                _"Inglese? Tedesco?"_ Illya interceded on Gaby's behalf, knowing she didn't speak Italian.

                "English," said the man in a thick accent. He held up her hand in his wrinkled ones. "Little hands," he repeated. "Why a big, big ring on such little hands?" He fingered the faux pearl.

                Gaby smiled up at Illya. "A big man gives big rings," she said, and Illya smiled back.

                This remark flew right past the goldsmith. "Such a trinket," he said, his nose wrinkled. "You replace this. You— _bella._ Too beautiful for this."

                The smile had faded from Illya's face.

                "I think it's beautiful," Gaby told him.

                "Taste is not-- what is word? Not-- _refined._ See?" He pulled the ring from Gaby's finger and tapped it, gem-first, on the glass. "Fake."

                She scowled. "I know it is. There's--"

                Illya's fingers shook, and he tried to hold them still, but he couldn't stop them-- they began to tap at his pant leg.

                "Look." The goldsmith reached into his pocket for a loupe. "See? Look. Cheap. Like-- like street vendor."

                "You aren't listening. I don't wear this ring because it's expensive."

                "Not expensive, no. Cheap thing. Here. Look at this."

                In the glass, Gaby caught the reflection of Illya's hand out of the corner of her eye. Glancing up, she saw his lips had become a thin line. _Oh no,_ she thought.

                "Give me my ring back," she demanded. "I'm leaving."

                "No stamp," he was saying, pointing at the inner band with a yellowed fingernail. "Not real."

                Illya gritted his teeth. "It is sterling silver," he said, jaw set.

                "No stamp! That means is a fake. Will make a finger green."

                Illya's fingers curled into a fist.

                "Look," Gaby said to the goldsmith, snatching the ring from his hand. "This ring was made for me by a man who I love very much. I know he wouldn't have made it out of something that would turn my finger green, because he continues to prove that he knows more about fashion than I do, and he cares-- sometimes _too_ much-- about quality. I know it is a fake pearl; there is a long and interesting story behind it, which I will not be telling you, because this ring--" she stuck it back on her finger-- "is more valuable to me than everything in your store combined." Tilting her head, she considered the goldsmith, who was staring at her, aghast; and then she delicately scooped her fingers underneath the edge of the tray of rings and flicked her wrist, sending them scattering across the floor behind the counter.

                Demurely, she hooked her arm through Illya's. "Let's go, darling," she said coolly.

                He marched out the door with her, leaving a tiny little bell jingling in their wake.

                Once outside, Gaby took his hands in hers. "They're still," she commented.

                "Yes." He stared at them as if he couldn't believe it.

                She stood on her tiptoes and tilted her face up towards him. "So maybe I've done you some good after all."

                "Yes." He bent down, pressing his lips to hers. "I think you have. Come. We will try the next shop."


	2. Chapter 2

Copenhagen, Denmark

January 1967

 

                Gaby frowned at herself in the bathroom mirror. She was wearing the frumpy olive-green, fake-pearl-adorned skirt suit that had been delivered to her hotel room that morning. When she took it from the hanger, she read the label and rolled her eyes; it was a Jean Patou suit. She was quite sure that Napoleon had chosen the suit specifically to annoy Illya, and that he had chosen to have it delivered so late so she couldn't demand another outfit.

                She sailed out of the bathroom and stood in front of Napoleon, who had one leg crossed over the other in a handsome walnut chair, chatting away in German with a woman in a well-cut day dress. "Let's go, Ambassador," she snapped.

                "It seems that my secretary thinks she's the boss," said Napoleon to the woman, who laughed immediately, tossing a wave of brown curls over her shoulder.

                Gaby rolled her eyes. "Our appointment is in five minutes, _sir,"_ she said pointedly. "We wouldn't want to be late."

                "Well; duty calls. It was wonderful to meet you." He reached for her hand, kissed the back of it, and rose as she blushed.

                "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Martin."

                As they walked down the hallway, Gaby shook her head. "A mission is not the greatest time to pick up women, you know."

                "You should talk."

                "I have picked up precisely zero women while working missions," she deadpanned.

                Napoleon smiled. "Well, you've got a better sense of humor than your boyfriend."

                "And he's got better fashion sense than you."

                "What is _wrong_ with Jean Patou?"

                "Nothing, if you're my grandmother."

                They fell silent upon entering the conference room. A wiry man with horn-rimmed glasses and salt-and-pepper hair rose from his seat at the table. "Let me guess. You're the American?"

                His fetid coffee breath made Gaby step back a pace.

                Napoleon gave a dashing smile. "Peter Martin. What gave me away?"

                "Einar Alfredsson, Minister of Culture." They shook hands. "You didn't look Russian."

                In mock confusion, Napoleon raised an eyebrow. "Not even Sherlock Holmes can deduce like that."

                Alfredsson laughed. "I've met everyone else before. Both you and the Russian ambassador to Denmark are new. I haven't had the chance to make his acquaintance yet, either."

                While Napoleon and Alfredsson made small talk, Gaby sat in a chair and readied her notebook and pen. She watched as men began to filter in. Through the door came a rotund Norwegian in an exquisitely tailored suit; a willowy Finn with an expensive-looking briefcase who avoided eye contact with everyone he greeted; a cheerful German with mis-matched socks (Gaby wondered if Napoleon had noticed); and then Illya, who introduced himself to the Minister as Mikhail Norin.

                As the various ambassadors continued to filter in, she scrutinized each one, reminding herself that outward appearance wasn't going to give away the culprit. A British agent on assignment in the Schleswig-Holstein region had transmitted intelligence to MI6 indicating that a group of fanatics planned to sabotage Denmark's planned World Culture Expo. Nothing was known except that one of their members had managed to secure an ambassador position-- whether legitimately or by force and trickery-- and the council was in danger. The head of MI6 put in a call, but Denmark was wary of MI6 after they'd botched a mission which resulted in a hospitalization for the Crown Princess. Therefore, Waverly sent in his trio-- without informing the Danish Minister of Culture-- to sniff out the threat and act as a response team if anything happened at the meeting.

                After everyone had settled in to their seats, Alfredsson began the meeting. After a lengthy and rather self-important introduction, he reviewed the details of the "first annual" World Culture Expo. Gaby gathered that this review was mostly for the benefit of the new American and Russian ambassadors and took diligent notes while Napoleon sipped thoughtfully at his water and pretended to be engrossed by Alfredsson's words.

                This went on for what seemed like hours. Finally, they moved on to the rest of the agenda; the particulars of the event. After they had hashed out the details of the site (the government had purchased three hundred square feet of land from five farmers) and rules regarding displays (Finland's ambassador was firm in his demand to have a sauna built at Finland's pavilion, which Illya backed, citing the importance of saunas in Russian _dacha_ culture as well) they began to discuss site space, and Gaby excused herself to use the restroom.

                Once she reached the restroom, she splashed some cold water on her face, trying to wake up. This really wasn't her cup of tea; she'd much rather have been backing down sidewalks and wedging cars between walls. A room full of dry-voiced men discussing whether or not cows would be allowed on a particular parcel of grass was not her idea of an interesting morning. In her mind, she ran over the MI6 intelligence again.

                Just as she was about to exit, she heard a voice.

                _"Es fast Zeit ist."_

                _It is almost time._ She froze. _It’s the German._

                Another voice responded. "Five or ten minutes."

                _"Ja,_ they will still be arguing about cows."

                Their voices began to fade. Making a quick decision, Gaby slipped out of her noisy heels, silently pushed the door open, and padded down the tiled hallway. She stopped at the corner of the corridor, her back to the wall, listening to their conversation. Waverly had feared a bomb; as Gaby listened, it became apparent that their plans relied on gunfire.

                _Sans_ shoes, she dashed back to the conference room and threw the door open, only to be greeted by a yelling match. Illya and the French ambassador both stood in the center of the room, shouting at one another.

                "We have no place for Communism in the West," spat the Frenchman, "and therefore you have no place with us."

                "Then why invite man from East Germany?" Arms crossed, Illya stared him down.

                "Not all East Germans are Communists, Ambassador Norin. You and your country forced it upon them."

                "They tell me not all Frenchmen are cowardly weaklings, but you do nothing to prove that."

                The French ambassador bristled. "I hear some Russians are actually intelligent and cultured, but I have yet to meet one of those."

                "Everyone listen to me," Gaby shouted. "I am MI6. There's been a threat. Gunmen are coming in the next five to ten minutes. I--"

                "Offer them the Cossack. Everyone else can live."

                Illya's fingers tapped at his side. "You are testing me."

                Napoleon sucked in a breath. "Fellows. I'm sure a couple of _ambassadors_ \--" he looked pointedly at Illya-- "wouldn't need to turn to violence."

                "Drop the cover," snapped Gaby, as the Danish Minister of Culture spoke hastily into the phone. "We don't have much time."

                "--a vodka-drinking, cigarette-smoking, corrupt--"

                "Ignorant stereotypes do _nothing_ to help you--" Illya's fingers tapped more urgently, his lip curling into a growl.

                "Sometimes, stereotypes exist for a _reason--"_

                The doors swung open and a guard walked in.

                Illya reached back and clocked the ambassador; Gaby could hear the bone break even over the ambassador's howl of pain. He towered over the Frenchman, who was swearing a blue streak in his native language, and curled his hand into a fist; Gaby, standing behind him, quickly squared off, locked her elbow, and swung, hitting Illya directly on the temple.

                The guard drew a gun, aiming right for her. "Hands in the air!"

                Illya's head drooped to one side, and Gaby obeyed. "I am MI6," she repeated. "Gaby Teller. You can call for my credentials, but right now, we have to shut this place down."

                The dumbfounded guard simply stared at her. "What about him?" He gestured toward Illya.

                "He's with us," Napoleon said.

                The ambassador, still clutching his face, shouted through his teeth: "Get them all the hell out of here!"

                Gaby whirled around. "I'm on your side! Why do you think I stopped him from doing further damage?"

                "He broke my jaw!"

                "Maybe you should have shut your mouth," she snapped. "This Russian has saved you from more than you know!"

                "That--"

                Napoleon, sensing Gaby's own rage, shook his head at the ambassador and shushed him. "Better not. That's her boyfriend."

                "But you-- he--" The guard looked from Illya to Gaby. "Is he alive?"

                Gaby nodded. "Can't touch him for twenty minutes, so we can't drag him out of here. Now _shut this room down_. We don't have much time."

                As the guard jammed a button, Napoleon screwed the silencer on to his gun. "So, he taught you how to perform the KGB Kiss. I'm impressed, Gaby."

                "What, that?" She shrugged. "It's easy. You just have to make sure to make contact at the temple with the proper amount of force."

                He rolled his eyes. "Takes years to master, my ass." Sighing, he looked down at her with a grin. "You know... he's going to kill you when he wakes up."

                She shrugged. "I don't think so. I plan on telling him you punched him in the face, Cowboy."

                His grin faded.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucharest, Romania

September 1969

 

                The slam of the door resounded down the hotel hallway.

                Illya marched into their suite and disappeared into the bedroom immediately, shutting the door behind him. Sighing, Gaby dumped her purse onto the couch, ripped the thigh holster from beneath her dress, kicked off her shoes, and poured herself a drink.

                She opened the French doors leading out to the balcony; the cold fingers of moonlight struck her in the face as she padded out onto the cold cement. The city slept; it was one a.m., and the only signs of life were a stray dog wandering down the street nosing through trash cans and an anemic siren wailing in the distance.

                The night hadn't gone the way they had expected. Since China had officially denounced the Soviet Union as "revisionist traitors," the Soviets had worried about spies from their former ally infiltrating the Soviet bloc. Their target, Liáng Yi, was China's answer to Napoleon Solo; a master thief with a deadly aim. He had managed to infiltrate and steal secrets from the Kremlin just two weeks ago. Now, he was in Romania, hunting down one of Russia's chief nuclear scientists, Boris Ivanov, while Ivanov was on vacation to see his parents in Bucharest. The mission was to intercept Liáng before he had a chance to make contact with Ivanov; unfortunately, everything had gone south in a hurry when Liáng had showed up with four surprise associates. Liáng had captured Ivanov, Napoleon was in the hospital, and Liáng's knife had made a deep cut in Illya's left arm.

                _And the bastard won't go to the hospital,_ Gaby thought, draining the rest of her whiskey and setting the glass on the wide railing. She'd tied a quick tourniquet on the scene with her scarf, but he needed medical attention.

                She went back inside to check on him. From behind the closed door, she heard his voice; the words were in Russian, not English. He had begun to teach her his language, but she was still very much a novice; she couldn't claim fluency, although she could have basic conversations and was now accustomed to saying “спасибо” instead of "thank you." Quietly, she pushed the door open.

                Illya's back was to her; white-knuckled, his right hand clutched the phone. Blood soaked his left sleeve and Gaby's scarf, running down his palm and dripping from his fingertips. A small red pool stained the beige carpet.

                She'd been trained by the Brits in advanced first aid after her recruitment, and went straight for the kit in the top drawer. When Illya saw her take out the needle, he covered the receiver. "No," he said firmly.

                Gaby just tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "I am not going to let you bleed any longer. Do you want something to bite down on?"

                "Russians are not that weak."

                "Then you can handle my little needle."

                Knowing there was no arguing with her, Illya continued to speak as Gaby knelt at his side, sanitized the wound, and went to work. She could tell-- from the tone of his voice and the hunch of his shoulders-- that he was on the phone with his commander at the Kremlin.

                “Он выстрелил Solo,” Illya repeated. “И он ранил меныа. Было шесть челавик.”

                The response to Illya's statement was so loud Gaby could even hear it. She distinctly heard the word отетс -- Russian for "father." Illya closed his eyes, but Gaby was quite certain it wasn't from the pain of her needle stitching his wound together. The fingers on his left hand twitched.

                _Hold on,_ she willed him silently, knowing he was trying to stop an outburst.

                After they had finally shared their first kiss on that mission in Istanbul, Illya had sat her down and told her about himself. _I can be dangerous,_ he had said, eyes downcast, lashes nearly brushing his cheek. _I have-- anger problem. I get violent. I try-- I am trying to get better. In Rome, I stopped myself from destroying our hotel room when the Kremlin told me to kill Solo for that disk. It was the first time I was able to stop. Someday, it will no longer be a problem. But still now it happens. You need to know this before you decide to be with me._ He had taken her hand then, an earnest look in his pale blue eyes. _But I promise you, Gaby. I promise on my life, I will never hurt you._ And he'd kept his promise. Like any couple, they'd been through their fair share of squabbles, and he'd never once laid a hand on her or even made her feel afraid of him. He'd even taught her the KGB Kiss, so that she could use it on him-- _just in case,_ he said. She trusted him completely. But he'd certainly not become a Tibetan monk; Waverly'd had to do some major damage control after Illya broke the jaw of the French ambassador to Denmark on their last mission after one too many insults to his beloved Mother Russia, for instance.

                Wanting to reach down and hold his hand, Gaby concentrated instead on finishing the stitches. He did not flinch at the pain of the needle, but the words coming from the Kremlin were enough to make his arm shake. She pulled the final thread through and tied it off, then wrapped a bandage around it.

                " Да. Да. Конечно. Да.” He slammed the phone down, and Gaby reached for his hand.

                "What is it?" she said.

                He stared at the wall, eyes focused on a square-inch spot in front of him, doing all he could to not get up and overturn a table. "Threats."

                "What threats?"

                "Against who I care about. He already has my father. Now he knows about you."

                "He doesn't scare me."

                "He should." He tore his hand from hers and dug his palms into his eyes. "It blinds me. I will destroy this room. Gaby--" He glanced at her, pleading. "Help me. I do not want to ruin things. I don't want to be-- I don't want--"

                She took one hand back, forced his fist open, and gently traced the lines on his palm.

                Jaw set, face red, he rocked forward.

                "Breathe," she reminded him.

                His fingers continued to drum against his leg. "I don't want to be like this, Gaby."

                "Just breathe. Don't let it control you. Remember what you told me in Rome? Everything's going to be okay."

                He shut his eyes, clenching his other fist, open, closed, open, closed. His teeth ground together. "How do you know?"

                "Because I'm close by." She let go of his hand to undo the buttons on his dress shirt and slipped it off, then pulled his undershirt over his head and left the clothes in a heap on the floor. Her tiny fingers alighted on his spine like butterflies and moved softly.

                Illya let out a sigh.

                "Just breathe," she reminded him. She got to her feet and took his hand, leading him to the bed. He laid, face-down, on the satin duvet, and she let her fingers drift gently across his back. "Remember Finland."

                "Kakslauttanen," he murmured into the pillow, fingers still absently tapping against the thick blanket.

                "The igloo with the glass ceiling that we stayed in... buried in the snow... think of the Northern Lights that night, лыубов моыа, how peaceful it was... do you remember?"

                "I remember you smelled like black jasmine and oranges."

                "I remember you kept making sure the blanket was up around my shoulders."

                "The walls were clear. You were not wearing shirt. I did not want neighbors seeing you."

                "You weren't that shy about our activity."

                "...Blanket still stayed on."

                She smiled and pressed a kiss to his lower back. "Let's go back someday. They've built cabins now."

                "Better. Fireplaces and not all glass."

                "We could go to the Icehotel in Sweden."

                He shook his head. "Too cold."

                They drifted into silence as Gaby's fingers plunged into Illya's hair, her nails softly running over his scalp. He made that low little moan of satisfaction that she loved so much; he made it every time she played with his hair. Against the duvet, his fingers were still.

                He turned over. "Why does he not scare you? He is powerful man, my boss."

                "You'd tear off his head," she said matter-of-factly.

                Smiling, Illya tugged at her hand until she fell down onto the bed next to him. "I don't know if you will save me or be my death," he chided playfully.

                A dimple appeared in her cheek. "You'll enjoy it either way."

                "My little chop-shop girl." He pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I believe you are right."


	4. Chapter 4

Paris, France

April 1970

 

                "So, Monsieur Koshkin. Tell me about the symphony." Gaby pulled a layer from her croissant, brushing the crumbs to the pavement.

                Gaby, Illya, and Napoleon sat outside at a sidewalk cafe, enjoying a French breakfast as the sun made its ascent in the late September sky. They had arrived in Paris the previous night; Illya and Gaby had checked in at their hotel as Alexei and Natalia Koshkin, informing the friendly desk clerk that they were in France so that Alexei-- talented pianist that he was-- could audition for the _Orchestre de Paris_. At the gentle urging of the staff, Illya had sat down at the grand piano in the lobby and played a beautiful interpretation of Debussy's _Clair de Lune,_ then was subsequently congratulated on his certain success. After Illya spent the rest of his night demonstrating fingering techniques for Gaby, the pair made their way to the Cafe de Flore to meet Napoleon and wait for the man Waverly was sending to help them out on their mission.

                Illya chewed thoughtfully on a strawberry. "The _Orchestre de Paris_ ," he began, "is fairly new. It was created after the _Orchestre de la Société des Concerts du Conservatoire_ was disbanded. There were many French conductors." He raised a finger. "However."

                Gaby exchanged glances with Napoleon, hiding her grin from Illya behind a layer of croissant.

                "The most famous of all conductors was Russian. His name was Semyon Chekov. Now, Chekov--"

                Able to contain her laughter no longer, Gaby burst into giggles. A wide smile spread across Napoleon's face.

                "I am _serious,_ " Illya insisted. "I have done research. Chekov went north through Finland to get out of the Soviet Union. He--" In the middle of the sentence, he stopped short, his clear eyes laser-focused on something across the street.

                Gaby reached for the butter, subtly leaning over to try to see what Illya was staring at. "Is it Chevalier?" she wanted to know.

                Napoleon turned his whole body to look.

                "You're a terrible spy, cowboy," Illya said. "It's not Chevalier. It's worse."

                "Do tell," Napoleon said, turning around.

                "Yuri Glazkov."

                "Forgive me, but that sounds quite Russian." Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

                "KGB."

                "So... that means he's on _your_ side."

                "No."

                He sat back. "I'm not following. Have you defected?"

                "No."

                With a roll of his eyes, Napoleon sighed and regarded Gaby. "Loquacious, isn't he?" He turned back to Illya. "Waverly told me that we were working with another KGB agent. I am guessing that this Glazkov's our man. Do you want to tell me why he's on our side and yet not-- somehow-- on your side?" He rubbed his temple.

                "This will not end well. Last time I saw him, I put him in hospital for two months. He will want revenge."

                Sighing, Napoleon looked skyward, silently asking God for patience as Glazkov crossed the street. "Teller, he's been teaching you Russian. What's the word for 'cat?'"

                "Кот."

                "Diminutive?"

                She thought a moment. "Кошка."

                "Thus, Koshkin." He lifted his _cafe au lait_ to his lips, winking at Illya. "What'd I tell you that time in Rome, Peril? Take it like a pussy."

                "Not this time." Illya folded his cloth napkin and tossed it on his plate, standing.

                “Здравствуыте, Comrade Kuryakin." Yuri strode up to the table, black hair nearly dripping oil into Gaby's espresso. She wrinkled her nose, sliding her coffee toward the center of the table and her chair closer to Napoleon's. "How is your father?" he asked pointedly.

                "How's your nose?" Illya narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Glazkov's face. "Looks like they were unable to repair it fully."

                "Well enough to smell an asshole."

                "You spend enough time with your nose up Ryzhkov's, I'm surprised you can distinguish the scent."

                "Yet you are his golden boy."

                Illya folded his arms. "It is the nature of things. There must be someone who is best."

                Napoleon let out a low whistle. "This is quite the Soviet pissing contest," he whispered to Gaby.

                "You can say that again."

                "Can't you calm him down? Sing him a lullaby or something?"

                She rolled her eyes. "That's ridiculous."

                "He's going to blow our cover in the middle of the street." Napoleon got to his feet. "Well, it seems you two are well-acquainted; Glazkov, why don't you pull up a chair so Gaby and I can get to know you?"

                Pushing past Illya, he sat down in Illya's wrought-iron chair and immediately pulled a croissant from the basket.

                Illya seized a chair from the next table, jammed it down next to Gaby, and re-crossed his arms.

                "I'm Napoleon Solo, and this is Gaby Teller."

                "Yuri Glazkov."

                "So we hear. We're all here for Jean-Luc Chevalier. He is a violinist in the _Orchestre de Paris_ , his family owns several vineyards in the _Côte de Nuits_ region, and he uses the profits to finance his own pet project-- namely, development of chemical weapons."

                "Who are these weapons going to?" Glazkov asked.

                "He has tried to sell to Russia," Illya said impatiently. "Read your file. Or did that concussion slow down your brain?"

                "Not as much as your father's brain had slowed the last time I saw him.”

                His fingers began to tap on his arm.

                "He has also spoken with several countries in the Middle East," Napoleon said quickly. "Legitimate leadership, factions, it doesn't matter to him."

                As Glazkov asked him another question, Gaby thought fast, pulling him close. "Maybe we should just get away from this guy," she said.

                "What?"

                "Let Solo handle this." She nodded down the street at Le Bon Marché. "Come on. You can pick out another over-priced dress for me."

                "Your belt is good for that dress," he remarked.

                She looked down. "Thank you."

                _It doesn't match,_ mouthed Napoleon over his shoulder, as Glazkov ordered a coffee.

                _It doesn't_ have _to match,_ Illya mouthed back.

                Glazkov turned. "So you are fashion advisor for U.N.C.L.E.," he said, not bothering to hide the presumptuous smile on his face. "An important and honorable role, I see."

                "Perhaps you don't know this-- as you said, you certainly aren't the KGB's best-- but proper attire is important to a mission. Fitting in is paramount." Annoyance colored Napoleon's voice.

                “For example. Paris is—city of fashion. You have too much grease in your hair to fit in here. It looks like Gaby poured out oil pan in it.”

                He bristled. “That watch of yours is poor quality.”

                Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a death wish, comrade?”

                Gaby reached for Illya's knee. "Find a new dress for me," she whispered teasingly in his ear, "and I'll wear nothing else but that dress for the rest of the day."

                “Nothing?”

                She nodded.

                Iron scraped against concrete, and he tossed a handful of francs on the table. "See you later, Cowboy. Glazkov-- поьшыол ьна хуи."

                Setting a hand on Gaby's shoulder, he walked away.

               


	5. Chapter 5

Annapolis, Maryland, USA

March 1972

 

                "I haven't had such good riesling since Düsseldorf," raved Gaby, pouring herself a third glass. "God. I love a good sweet wine."

                "And we haven't even got our main course yet," Napoleon said with an arched eyebrow, privately impressed.

                The trio, back together after a few days of their own solo assignments, had met up at a restaurant on the waterfront for dinner. Gaby, in good spirits after spending a pleasant weekend at a bed and breakfast leisurely listening in to the conversations in the room below hers, had immediately ordered a bottle of the restaurant's finest German dessert wine. Napoleon declined a glass, preferring instead to match a Chardonnay with their crab cake appetizer, while Illya decided to stick with a glass of water.

                "I learned nothing," Illya reported. "Only that not everyone was there. Vasari and Russo were there. Menaghin was missing."

                "The wives mentioned Menaghin," Napoleon said. "According to them, he's on an 'extended vacation.'"

                "Sleeping with fish." Illya and Gaby had been to the cinema to see The Godfather last week, which he particularly enjoyed; he had picked up a few phrases from the film.

                Gaby giggled. "Sleeping with the fishes," she corrected.

                Embarrassed, he focused on a crab cake.

                "I wouldn't doubt it," said Napoleon. "If they're throwing around that euphemism and Menaghin wasn't at the meeting, he's probably at the bottom of the Hudson. The question is: why?"

                As the waiter came with their food, they thanked him in turn.

                "Anything else?" asked the waiter.

                "Yes," Illya said. "Can I order a glass of wine?"

                "Of course." As Illya reached for the wine menu, he ventured another question. "Can I ask-- your accent. I can't place it. Where are you from?"

                "I am from Russia."

                His expression soured. "Oh. What do you want?"

                "Your sweetest Moscato, please."

                "Oh. Well-- most people tend to pair a good Pinot Noir with lamb. Moscato is a dessert wine. I wouldn't expect you to be able to develop a refined palate, though, living in Russia."

                His fingers twitched.

                _Here we go,_ thought Napoleon. "You know, now that my lobster is in front of me, I think I'd enjoy a glass of Puligny-Montrachet, if you have it."

                He turned his attention to Napoleon. "We have a Chassagne-Montrachet."

                "That'll do fine. Thank you."

                As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Napoleon leaned forward. "Don't punch the waiter."

                "He insults my country."

                " _Please_ do not punch the waiter, Peril. This lobster looks delicious. I want the chance to eat it."

                "This is not the Russian way."

                Gaby grinned at him. "I know all about the Russian way." She slid her fingers onto his arm. "I like the Russian way."

                Napoleon eyed her with some surprise. "You're drunk."

                "She is not drunk," Illya replied matter-of-factly, affectionately patting her hand. "I have seen her drunk."

                "I still haven't gotten you drunk enough to dance," Gaby mused, setting her chin in her palm.

                "And you won't."

                "I won't slap you this time. Promise." She clumsily crossed her heart, offering a cheeky smile.

                Illya wasn't listening; his eyes were fixed on the waiter, who was across the room having a conversation with a coworker and pointing in their general direction.

                Gaby tilted her chin toward him. "You're trembling."

                "I am angry. This man insults me."

                She blinked slowly at Illya; an impudent smile spread slowly across her face, and she grabbed his large hand in her tiny ones.

                "What are you doing?" he demanded, as she slid it into her lap.

                "If that hand's going to be shaking," she said with a completely straight face, popping an olive into her mouth, "I'm going to put it to use."

                Illya's eyes got round. "Gaby--"

                Napoleon rolled his eyes. "We are at a _dinner table_ , Peril."

                Gaby grinned.

                "She is the one who put it there."

                "Not strong enough to take it away?" teased Gaby.

                At that moment, the waiter returned. "A Chassagne-Montrachet... and a glass of... Moscato. Enjoy your dinner."

                When he walked away, Gaby thought they'd be able to eat in peace. Instead, the other waiter came over.

                "Rick tells me that you're from Russia. What are you doing here?"

                He ignored the fact that Gaby still held his hand in her lap. "Having dinner."

                "No. I meant why did you come to this place?"

                Illya sat down his fork with a soft _thud_. "I heard you had good lamb."

                "No. Why did you come to my country?"

                " _Your_ country?"

                Napoleon guessed that the Ford outside with the faded "McCarthy for President" bumper sticker belonged to this man.

                Gaby blinked at the waiter. "American. You are an American."

                He straightened. "Born and bred."

                "I," she said, slurring her words a bit, "am German. East German."

                "So you know what it's like to have your country taken over by a Commie from--"

                "After World War Two," she said, cutting him off, "there were several American soldiers who made a good living from stealing valuable things that belonged to Germans. One man in particular made millions. I know what it's like to have my country taken over by American thieves with expensive-looking suits and light fingers."

                Napoleon smiled at her, as if accepting a compliment.

                "Not all Americans are thieves," the waiter barked, affronted.

                "And not all Russians are Leonid Brezhnev," she returned.

                "He doesn't even have the eyebrows for it," remarked Napoleon offhandedly, twisting a claw off his lobster.

                The waiter sneered. "He sounds like that caterpillar-eyebrowed sonofabitch. Now you all finish your dinners, and I don't want to see any of you in here again after tonight. Including you." He glared at Gaby. "They say too damn many East Germans are spreading their legs for Communism."

                Napoleon snorted. "You have no idea, _garçon."_

                Illya's fingers, which were still in Gaby's lap, began to tap angrily at her thigh.

                Calmly, Gaby stood, swayed on the spot, and steadied herself using Illya's shoulder. She sized up the waiter for a second, then walked behind him.

                Illya immediately caught on. He took a bite of lamb, and washed it down with a sip of wine. "Perfect pairing," he pronounced. "Flavors go well together."

                And with one well-placed swing of her hand, Gaby took him out. As if nothing had happened, she went back to her seat and left him standing there, unconscious and prostrate.

                The three of them had tucked in and were enjoying their meals when the other waiter came by to check on them.

                "Don't touch," Gaby said, when he went to tap his coworker on the shoulder.

                "Secret Russian death trap," Napoleon said placidly, dipping a piece of lobster in the drawn butter.

                "Get too close to us and you may catch Communism." Gaby, still lightheaded, grinned.

                "And you'll risk it," Illya told the terrified waiter, lifting up his empty glass. "I need to have enough of this in my blood to dance tonight."

 


	6. Chapter 6

Moscow, Russia

July 1972

 

                Clumps of heliotrope perfumed the mild summer air and songbirds chirped cheerfully from branches high up in the trees as Illya and Gaby strolled through the park. It was Illya's birthday, and he had decided that what he really wanted this year was to bring her home-- to his home.

                They ambled silently along the pebbled pathway, Gaby's tiny hand in his massive one, Illya savoring the scent of wormwood-- a reminder of his younger days-- while Gaby let her other hand idly pull at the papery bark of the birch trees lining the walk.

                "I shouldn't have brought you here," he said suddenly.

                "It's beautiful here."

                "I mean-- home."

                "Why?"

                "You know that my family is..." He trailed off, and Gaby pressed his hand. She was aware that his family was a source of shame for him, though she knew that it was more complicated than that; years of exposure to Western culture while working with U.N.C.L.E. had thrown his formerly strict cultural values into question, and he no longer knew if he _should_ be ashamed of his parents. She had met his aunt and uncle earlier on in the week; they had seemed nice, despite their taciturn demeanor and frown-lined faces. Ludmila had taken her under her wing in the kitchen, teaching Gaby how to make her special sausage-and-lentil soup. Later, Illya had told Gaby that his aunt must have really liked her if she taught her the recipe. Gaby still had it tucked protectively in her purse.

                "I know about your family," she said. "It doesn't matter."

                "You have only met Artyom and Ludmila. Once you meet my mother--" He stopped short, his grip on Gaby's hand tightening.

                Coming toward them, hands in his pockets, was Oleg Ryzhkov.

                A chill ran through Illya's bones as he remembered the first ominous call in Bucharest, the vaguely threatening communications after Paris, and he drew Gaby close, putting an arm around her. She felt him tense, and followed his gaze to see who he was looking at. Though it was her first time setting eyes on the director of the KGB in person, she had seen his photo before, and she knew what he was capable of.

                "Oleg." Illya's greeting was cold, guarded.

                "Kuryakin." He turned to acknowledge Gaby. "And this must be Miss Teller. For now."

                Their engagement was no secret, but for some reason, she felt uncomfortable that he knew about it. Just the way those words-- на данныы момент-- came out of his mouth made her shudder.

                "Gaby," she found herself saying. "It's nice to meet you."

                "Such a coincidence that I find you here," Oleg said, though all three of them knew it was only pretense; he'd sought them out. "I was hoping I would get a chance to meet you when you were in Moscow. It is good that I decided to get some fresh air."

                "A happy accident," Gaby said, forcing a smile.

                "Come. Let's have lunch."

                Fifteen minutes later, Gaby found herself in a cafe with new Formica tables, ordering her _golubtsy_ in conversational Russian, while Oleg looked on, impressed. "You are good with languages," he observed, as they handed their menus to the waiter.

                "Not really. I only am fluent in English and German. Illya is a good teacher, though."

                "Don't be modest."

                Illya folded his arms. "What are you doing, Oleg?"

                "Making conversation with your fiancée. The talented _British_ spy."

                "She is German."

                "She works for MI6."

                "I work with MI6 and the CIA."

                "You are a KGB agent."

                "Yes. And we have allies now."

                "They are _not_ our allies, Kuryakin."

                He leaned forward. "You are talking about a good friend and my future wife. Both have saved my life many times. Both have helped me serve my country. They _are_ my allies."

                "Your future wife," Oleg repeated. "If she is your woman, she should join her husband's side."

                "Are you trying to recruit me?" demanded Gaby.

                He turned to her. "Are you saying no?"

                Illya's fingers tapped on the table. "Are you threatening her?"

                "I see your tic has not left you," Oleg said, glancing at Illya's hand. "What will you do, Kuryakin?"

                "Threaten her and I will kill you and defect," he spat.

                Gaby remembered the conversation they'd had on the floor of that Bucharest hotel. She didn't doubt that he would end his boss' life on the spot, but if he let his temper get the best of him, the entire Soviet bloc would be closed to U.N.C.L.E. Even though Gaby's instinct was to let him go, she knew that there would be terrible repercussions if she did.

                Before Gaby could do anything, Illya pushed his chair back. "Excuse me," he said stiffly, and strode off.

                Oleg considered her. "He has an anger problem," he told her.

                "I know who I am marrying," she said coldly.

                "Has he broken things yet? Struck you?"

                "If you have to ask that question, your psychological evaluations need updating."

                "If you love him, you will not make him decide between a wife and a country."

                "If you value him as an agent, you will not ask him to. Because you know what choice he'll make, and you can't afford to lose someone like him." She rose, gathering her purse. "It was good to meet you, but I think we'll be leaving now."

                Turning on her heel, she left Oleg behind her and went outside to search for Illya. She found him pacing in the alley behind the restaurant. "Come on. We'll eat somewhere else."

                His fingers still shook. "He will not have you," said Illya through gritted teeth. "He will not control any other person I love."

                "I told him so."

                "It is out of control." He held up his hand; it was shaking more fiercely than she'd seen him move before. "He threatens my father. He threatens--"

                Oleg emerged into the alley, pistol drawn. "Kuryakin. We are going to come to an agreement right now."

                Eyeing the gun, Gaby took stock of the situation. For the moment, she stepped slightly away from Illya, knowing the distance would make it harder for him to hold them both at gunpoint.

                "Okay." Though his hands still shook, his voice was level. "Release my father, promise Gaby she is safe from you, and I will continue to call myself KGB agent."

                "I'm the one with the weapon, Kuryakin."

                "So you are."

                "And if I don't agree with your terms?" He snorted. "What will you do?"

                "As I said in restaurant. Kill you. Go to work for MI6 or CIA."

                "Even if you can manage that, your father will die for it."

                "After I kill you, I will get him out before the KGB knows you are dead."

                The air was thick with humidity; beads of sweat collected on Oleg's forehead. "You say you will defect. Leave Russia."

                "Yes."

                That small syllable, Gaby knew, carried so much pain with it; she doubted anyone loved Russia as much as Illya did. She ached to reach out to him.

                "You would leave your motherland for this East German whore?"

                Gaby cringed. A gunshot shattered the silence of the alley, splintering the brick wall behind Illya, but he-- with his preposterous agility-- had dodged it. His fist connected with Oleg's face, eliciting a sickening _crunch_ as his nose shattered. Oleg cried out and his finger reached for the hammer, but Gaby's sharp-toed heel kicked it from his hand, sending it skittering across the cobblestone. Without his weapon, Oleg delivered a blow to Illya's stomach, but Illya barely registered the pain, if he felt any at all; both massive hands boxed the director's ears with hard punches, over and over. The director curled into a defensive position, falling over onto the street, and tried to shield his skull from further blows, but Illya was too strong.

                _I should stop him_ , Gaby thought wildly, but she couldn't help but remember the threats that had intensified over the years. Since 1969, when Oleg found out she was Illya's partner in more ways than one, he had used it against him; whenever Illya had a crisis of conscience, whenever he disagreed with a KGB directive, whenever he preferred not to deliver a fatal shot when the Kremlin was telling him to pull the trigger, Oleg was on the other end of the phone, telling him about the terrible fate that would befall Gaby if he were to not follow orders or not succeed in his mission. He had gone so far as to send Yuri Glazkov to trash her unlisted flat in London as a warning: _we know where she is and we can get to her._

                Oleg rolled away, ducking under Illya's fist, and dove for the gun; Illya, with his long arms, reached it at the same time. Oleg gripped the handle, struggling to gain control. As Gaby lunged forward to help, their elbows went down, and the pistol went off.

                She stopped dead. For a moment, she didn't know if anyone had been hit. But it was Oleg who gasped, his hands touching the fatal wound in shock, before his eyes went blank.

                Gaby went to Illya, taking his bloodied fist in her little hands. "Illyusha," she said, using the diminutive tenderly. "We need to go."

                His face was white, his lips drawn into a thin line. "This will change everything.” He looked at his former boss bleeding out on the ground. “This alliance could not last forever.”

                She pressed his hand. “It won’t change everything.”

                He looked down at her.

                “Our countries might be enemies, but your ring is still on my finger, лыубов моыа. Your _real_ ring.” She smiled. “Come on. You and I are going to get out of this together.”

                He bent to kiss her. “Together,” he repeated, reaching for her other hand.

                Side by side, they exited the alley.

               


End file.
